


Easter, 1984

by TeaHouseMoon



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Angst, Fix-It, Happy Ending, Italy, Jealousy, Love, M/M, Oliver doesn’t get married, Sex, easter time, stroppy Elio being stroppy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 14:24:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12889791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaHouseMoon/pseuds/TeaHouseMoon
Summary: “So. Who is this guy?”Oliver’s voice said, almost abruptly; sounded tinny though the telephone receiver.“Just someone I know.”A fix-it story, because while I loved the book and I loved the film even more, I want them to be happy.





	Easter, 1984

“So. Who is this guy?”

Oliver’s voice said, almost abruptly; sounded tinny though the telephone receiver.

“Just someone I know.”

Elio wasn’t going to give out any details.

“Someone you know,” Oliver repeated. His tone was flat; but not in a confrontational way.

“You’re getting married.”

“The wedding is postponed.”

Elio grit his teeth.

“You’re getting married.”

He didn’t know why he was being that way. Difficult?  
Belligerent.

_You haven’t spoken to Oliver in a month._

“Are you still coming over for Easter?” Elio asked, a little more gently.

“Yeah. April 20th. On good Friday.”

Elio’s heart cramped, and he closed his eyes. Cheek pressed against the telephone.

“I hope to see you.”  
Oliver’s voice sounded hesitant.

Like he was asking. Like he wasn’t coming to stay at the Pearlman’s; like he wasn’t going to eat at the table with Sammy and Annella, like he wasn’t going to ask Mafalda for coffee; like he wasn’t going to sleep in one of the rooms upstairs, ten steps away from where Elio slept.

Elio bit his lower lip, and glanced at the window, at the rays of sun attempting in vain to breach though, impeded by the too close proximity of the buildings, here in M.

“I hope to see you, too.”

 

 

  
Waking up late wasn’t a common occurrence for Elio. Not at all.  
He usually had so much energy, especially first thing in the morning - he always saw the amusement, and wonder in his father’s eyes, looking at him before he made a comment on how he forgot what it is like, to be that young.

But today, the clock struck noon, and Elio covered his eyes with his arm. He hated how his heart beat fast in his chest.  
He knew that Oliver was already downstairs.

Sorting himself out, in the bathroom - quickly, before Oliver made his way up to drop his suitcase - Elio stared at his reflection; at his curls, so neat, yesterday, but wayward today; his lips, bitten; his tired eyes.  
_Ma che faccia ho?_

He found himself wanting Annella’s arms around him, her calm voice in his ear, warm, gently chiding. _No, amore mio._

His heart didn’t cease the drumming in his chest even as he sauntered down the stairs, and feigned ease, confidence, unaffectedness.  
It was the first time he saw Oliver again; after Bergamo and after the hotel, and their kisses in the old stradine, after making love for the last time, half-drunk, and completely heartbroken.

He had cried. Did Oliver remember?

 _I don’t have to meet him_ , Elio thought. _It’s not necessary. Maybe I don’t even want to.  
Maybe I should just go, leave through the back door, meet the others at the piazzetta where they are certainly having their rendez-vous and making the girls laugh, high-pitched._

“Elio.”

His name, from Oliver’s mouth. Again.

What a strange, other-worldly occurrence.

Maybe he was still dreaming.

“Come, Elio, come say hi to Oliver. He’s back!”  
It was his father, all celebratory, as if they had won the _lotteria_. Elio knew why Sammy spoke; he needed a hint.

He’d been standing in the middle of the sitting room for a whole ten seconds, frozen as if he were outside instead, in the still chilly air, so uncommon for April.

“Hi.”

Oliver’s arms - his strong, wide arms; the arms that could pick him up, hold him, and push him down, the arms that had done that all that, once - were around him once again, suddenly; Oliver was squeezing him against his chest.

He felt stronger; warmer. More solid. He felt safe and welcoming and commanding, and Elio felt dizzy, desperately wanted to hide his face in the crook of Oliver’s neck.

Oliver’s smell.

_Let’s just go upstairs, I want you to have me again. It wasn’t the last time, so long ago - there is this time, and all the times after that. I can’t live without you._

“How is everything? How have you been?”

Elio emerged from his short lived daydream. He looked at Sammy - looking back at him, eyes glittering with hope. It made Elio want to sob.

“I’ve been, uh. Okay. May I take your luggage upstairs?”

His face was on fire. That’s what he was asked to say to new recruits, just to be polite, but distant; not to someone who he had a relationship with. Who he slept with; who knew his naked body and his smell and his taste. Who owned his heart.

“I’d like to see my old room again,” Oliver replied, smiling. At ease.

Elio wanted to cry and to leave.

 

 

 

Short of Elio’s introductory speech- ‘This used to be my room, but now it’s your room. We have to share a bathroom; my only way out’ - settling Oliver back into his temporary lodging mirrored what happened when he’d first arrived, that past summer.

Elio did not speak. Could not speak.  
But he could feel that Oliver was watching him.

Oliver sat on the bed.  
Elio stood, by the window - eyes past the fogged-up glass, on the _paesaggio_ outside even though the morning light hurt his pupils.

“So, I’m here.”

  
“So you are.”

  
“Are you not going to look at me?”

Oh. The audacity. The boldness. The presumption.

Elio bit his lip, and wished he could stop his chest from pumping air so dizzyingly fast.  
He still didn’t look at Oliver.

“I’m going to miss you sleeping in this bed, with me.”

_That’s it._

“I have to go.”

“No. Elio. Wait.”

Elio stopped, four steps away from the door, and from opening it and slamming it shut, and going back to his life, and not having to confront a living, real Oliver in front of him as well as the Oliver that daily haunted his dreams and his thoughts.

“Why? Why, Oliver? You’re getting married. Soon.” He mocked Oliver’s words back at him. “ _It’s been on and off for two years.”_

Oliver’s hand was on his bicep again, like that day on the volleyball pitch, leaving red imprints on Elio’s skin even through his thick winter jumper; Oliver pulled him towards himself, looking up at him, and Elio’s body went. Traitor, _traitor_.

“I had to. I had to, Elio. But I didn’t want to. And I don’t want to,” the last few words louder, because Elio was struggling against his hold.

“I don’t want to get married to her. I’m not going to.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“Will you please just look at me?”

Elio didn’t want to, didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of listening; and desperately, desperately wanted to. To look at him, to kiss him; to say the words that couldn’t leave his mouth.

_I love you Oliver. I’ve loved you from the first time I saw you. I’ve loved you from even before that._

Oliver shook him, gently.

“I’m not saying this just to have you again. I’d die for your body - but it’s your heart I want. And I know I’ve broken it already, even though I never, ever wanted to.”

Oliver’s eyes were gleaming when Elio finally looked back.

“It’s a promise. You don’t have to give in, or agree, or feel the same. I’ll understand if you don’t. But I wanted you to know,” Oliver was almost whispering, now. His thumb caressed Elio’s lower lip; just for a moment.

“I just wanted you to know, that I’m yours.”

 

 

 

It is remarkable - Elio thought - how you can’t remember the start of a kiss. It’s not slow, or predictable, like in the movies; it’s a moment, and then you’re breathing with another person, mouth to mouth, eyes closed - cheeks flushed. One moment you’re in command, the next you’re led. One moment it’s affection - the next it’s deep, biting, wet and warm desire, never enough.

Elio could never forget the way Oliver kissed; he’d been worried he wouldn’t remember, but it happened so naturally, so easily. They were so practiced with each other.

Elio was hard almost instantly, and his brain, drunk on heartbreak and shock, could not stop his hips from pushing against Oliver’s body.

“What about the man you’re seeing?” Oliver rasped, quietly, against Elio’s ear, when Elio’s hips didn’t stop.

“I’m not seeing him,” he murmured against Oliver’s neck, his eyes closed, rolling back. “He courted me. That’s all.”

“So he didn’t touch you.” Oliver’s finger ran slowly down Elio’s throat, but his voice was a growl. It burned through Elio’s whole body, went straight to his abdomen.  
_I want to be yours, too, Oliver. I want you to take me, and mark me, and make me smell like you. I want you to keep everyone else away._

“He didn’t touch me,” Elio whispered, with the voice he had left in his lungs. “No one touched me, after you. No one.”

Oliver growled again, in response, and then he started undressing Elio, and Elio let him.  
Jumper off, trousers off, underwear off. Elio expected the cold air to bite at his limbs, but it was Oliver instead, scraping teeth and hot breath keeping his skin on flames.

Oliver pulled him onto the bed, and Elio straddled his hips - Oliver’s stronger, harder body, _god I hope he’s even bigger now so I can feel him in me for days._

They didn’t even worry about locking the door. Annella and Sammy would keep away. _They know we need this._

Elio must have blanked out, at least at some point, at least when Oliver decided to push him down on the mattress instead. He was urgent but not rushed; he touched Elio properly. He kissed and kissed.  
It hurt so good that Elio wanted to scream, and bite back at the lips now kissing his cheek and comforting, “it’s ok, it’s ok.”  
He didn’t realise he’d started crying.

 

 

In the end, Oliver didn’t move.  
Elio wanted to chuckle. Laying back, legs splayed, Oliver’s long, strong body covering most of his skinny torso and tummy - Elio felt like a doll, or like a sacrifice made to the gods. To Aphrodite, goddess of Love and Beauty, maybe; he would have to discuss that with Oliver, later.  
But in the meantime, time had finally stood still. Time finally was no longer out to trick him, and hurt him.

Oliver had come back to him.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please leave me a comment if you liked it.... xx


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